


Call my Bluff

by Honicomb



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, M/M, Sex Talk, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honicomb/pseuds/Honicomb
Summary: Clint Barton has a serious fucking problem.





	Call my Bluff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dazzledfirestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dazzledfirestar/gifts).



> I wrote this a long, long time ago, and was inspired by Dazzledfirestar's wonderful works of smutty art - particularly the ones involving one Pietro Maximoff. The way she wrote Clint was wonderful, and I couldn't help but give it my own stab. Given that I was rather green at writing things so sexually charged, I was never quite able to bring myself over the line, and became too bashful to get too far into it. But I dug deep into my history, and the writing might make that pretty clear. Alas, Dazzledfirestar, this one - *points at sky* - is for you.

There was a moment like many others where everything was frozen again. The suit on Clint's back tightened and softened; the muscles in his arms rippled, the veins growing larger beneath his dusty white skin. His knuckles were pained with the tightness around his bow, and everything was quiet as he found that single target he ached for in his mind's eye. For the very first time, knocking his weapon into position, the arrow in his fingers seemed to shiver.

His target glistened pale white among the others. It was bright and noticeable, and with the slightest blink it would be gone, like a speck of dust floating and vanishing into the light.

It was an hour into reckless training with the Black Widow when a lot of this seemed to somersault right onto Clint's plate. Pietro Maximoff had been on his mind for days, and Clint didn't even know the right word he could use to describe him. Was the term "cocky," or "arrogant," or would a phrase such as "fine as hell" be more fitting in this scenario?

And what the hell kind of BS law was keeping Clint from choosing all three?

Nothing. There was no law. But at the same time, maybe it was Clint who was being a little too frank about things. All of the possible choices were accurate, and no-one could deny it. Pietro had hair that reflected the sun and the blueness of the sky in dull fancy. His suit was skintight to serve the purpose of running; cut short at the arms so his skin and biceps could bask in the full sight of Clint. And those legs. Oh, Clint speculated about those legs. He wanted to know how they would feel in a vice grip around his naked thighs and how they would tighten; how the muscles would bunch and cord against him when they were both right on the edge.

Romanoff gave a feminine grunt and double-flipped just as the tip of Clint's arrow grazed the nape of her navel. The metal had been simply moments away from rocketing into her flesh and jutting from her backside in a sick and bloody rush. Clint aligned another arrow into place and listened to the quiet thud, the one that told him Natasha had landed. Her smirk was a smug gesture highlighted by those cherry lips.

Aiming for another shot, even Clint could tell that the grin he returned was a little weaker and more distracted. He couldn't blame himself; not really. His body was pumping blood all into one area and a bulge was tinting the crotch of his Kevlar suit in a way that one of his teammates - Tony, for instance - would probably never stop laughing at him for.

Clint released the string blindly and watched the arrow soar from his fingers, his eyes unfocused and cool as it wedged in a dusty sheet of the metal. Natasha made no attempt at dodging it, and now she was smirking, incredulous. "Barton," murmured the Widow in an amused voice.

"Romanoff." Clint pulled a dust rag from his pocket and worked on polishing an arrow; a shield of sorts to hide his erection. Sticky clumps of hair were poking at his eyebrows, and it better have been this training and not his damned arousal that was making him sweat like a pig.

"You'd better not be getting tired on me," he smirked at Natasha. He had to glance up at her past the clumps of his sweaty hair, and he winced inwardly at the rockiness of his voice. He felt too breathy, too unfocused. All because of Quicksilver.

The Widow swiped at a scarlet lock of hair with a Kevlar glove that crinkled as it moved. "Agent Barton, I never get tired," she told him.

It might have been true, but Clint still rolled his eyes. The strength of pure truth in her statement was eating at his brain because her eyes were so proud and airy now. Only a year ago, they'd looked much different to him. The battle of New York; it was a hard, bitter introduction for each of the Avengers. Even with Loki controlling him from the stem, Clint had a hard time believing that Natasha didn't get it the worst. Sure, Thor was Loki's brother and he had to deal with the destruction of "Midgard" which was what he called it, but he didn't have to watch his closest friend be turned into a puppet. Controlled.

It was impressive, just how well Natasha was able to deal with it.

Clint narrowed his eyes silently down at the arrow as he worked at its tip because her eyes were right on him and firm as they'd ever been. His fingers were restless. The tip was shiny as hell now, it practically glittered every time he dared turn or move it. He wasn't going to put it away in the sheath just yet. Not when his dick was still proud and noticeable from under the crotch of his suit.

The thought was nerve-racking to him. There was something about the way Natasha stalked towards him that made his nose scrunch and his heart rate accelerate to a steady, thudding hum from behind the barricade of his chest. Even if she hadn't already caught on, there was no way in hell that Clint was point to take a shot at being wrong. He would probably come off as disgusting, but he was surprised that that thought scared him a little less than it should have. She probably already felt that way about him somewhere deep down. That might have been the reason their relationship didn't work out all those years ago, when they had last given dating a try.

And now Romanoff was glancing away in innocence, the curves of her face glowing angelically. "I just wanted to know what you were thinking, Barton. That's all."

Clint smirked to himself. His erection had gone away and he slid his arrow into the sheath, listening for the gentle 'click' that meant it wouldn't be coming out. "That's all, huh?" He was back to smirking and attempting to cover up what had happened earlier. His gloves were moist with sweat; they stuck annoyingly to the rough skin of his hands, and his hair wasn't getting any less irritating as it poked over his eyebrows. He looked at Natasha with the seductive blue-eyed gaze he'd long stopped giving her in front of the Captain, and the Widow smiled to herself.

She leaned daintily on one foot in particular, almost as if there were a door frame or wall to support her weight. "Clint," she called the archer. He'd been gearing up to say something sarcastic, and she had apparently been able to see it coming. Her expression was too serious now, and inside his own mind, Clint cursed. He had trouble resisting the urge to wipe his face.

"There's been something on your mind," Natasha told him. "I can tell it isn't me, so what is it? A woman, a colleague . . . ?"

Clint had been interested in Natasha once, before the Avengers. They went out a few nights, had more than a few encounters in bed, and it took less than two months for it to all end because S.H.I.E.L.D decided that it wasn't secure enough risking the chance of a personal relationship affecting their heroic endeavors. That was a long time ago. Somehow, the two of them made a better duo as partners and friends. She had something with Steve nowadays, anyway.

Clint shoved his bow over his shoulder with his arm strung through the middle, a stiff, sweaty muscle in the frame of the weapon's dangerous look. He smirked, and just the fact that Natasha didn't return it should have mildly alarmed him.

But he knew what she was up to, and he made his smile wider. "'Tasha, I'm not gonna tell ya."

"You should," Romanoff tossed. Her long red eyelashes were peeled from those hazel eyes and she played impartial, waving her hand dismissively as her S.H.I.E.L.D boots clopped on the ground with each of her steps. Her hips swayed in seduction. "You should tell me."

Barton watched her from past his shoulder and his lips skillfully mimicked the smirk that was painted across her own. He'd been trained how not to panic during moments like these, yet he felt sweat continue to bleed and drool down his open skin. "Alright," Natasha said, smiling promisingly. "I think I already know."

He turned on his heel toward Natasha as she stalked her way toward the coded metal doors. "You're bluffing," he called after her.

His arms were crossed and he felt his eyes narrow in a manner expectant but just patient enough. It was the king of look one emits when waiting for an ATM or buying tickets to a movie that came out a week earlier. It seemed like a nightmare when Natasha turned. Her green eyes carried a subdued venom and her lips were curved in the smirk Clint both knew and vaguely feared. They were clear as day, the words she spoke next. Clear as the secrets in her dull green eyes.

And then she told him with a frankness, "You know I don't bluff, Clint."

It was an hour later when they sat together at the small kitchen table on the Avengers' floor. The room was empty of all but the two of them, and they were both dressed casually, Natasha having come from a shower and Clint having come from a bath to clear his thoughts. Needless to say, it was a sorry attempt, and it didn't work to clear up shit. Just more thoughts and empty, lifeless tile lined up for him to look at. It made him feel lonely, how large the showers were. Made to fit three people for some odd, perverted reason, the size of his washroom only served to increase the echo of the running water; the reverberation of his own soft grunts.

Clint poured himself some coffee. The only damned mugs Tony had were white, and the contrast of the color of coffee was all-too striking to help him focus. His brew was strong-tasting and black, per usual. Natasha demanded that he stir cream into hers. He did, but he stirred too lightly and probably used the wrong creamer. It didn't matter; it was a wisp of an issue that fluttered away too fast in the sea of his corrupted thoughts.

This - pouring cups of coffee and being ordered to add cream - was all a little reminiscent of the days when he and Natasha had been willing to try again.

Romanoff sat in front of him at the kitchen table, sipping daintily from her mug and squinting her eyes at the steam that blossomed over the rim. There had been a time when she'd learned to put up with Clint's brew, often sneaking extra sugar or spices to make it taste less horrid. He had a feeling that that time had passed. For now, his coffee felt like slime slithering into his throat from the mountain of his tongue. Too hot and too bitter.

Natasha set her mug down on a thick black-and-white stack of newspapers that had the Captain's name all over it. It was pushed to the edge of the table in disarray, the corners folded, a few of them already stained with round rings where hot mugs had been placed. Clint always found it a little creepy how that was where Natasha would sit when Steve was gone; right on the spot he'd usually sit and retain heaps of information about crimes he'd missed out on preventing.

Natasha was weaving her fingers together and her hands looked awfully soft and pleasing without the gloves to cover them. Clint spun his thumbs one over the other. The two of them had just come across the Scarlet Witch, which was why Clint's blood was rushing inside of him.

Even though he hadn't been putting thought into that particular mutant during the past few weeks, Steve sure seemed to think he had. He was always finding Clint in hallways or outside of doors or in training, asking him if he had an interest in Wanda or if he had known her sometime in the past. None of these speculations were true. When Clint brushed by the Witch, his lips had only been tilted in a smirk the entire time. 'I've had thoughts about boning your twin brother,' he had thought to himself, and he knew it must have been sad that he was only half-teasing.

Natasha was staring at him now with those familiar hazel eyes right on him. He didn't know how long they'd been sitting in silence, but her lips were in a straight line, completely serious. "You hardly even looked at her," she muttered.

And now Clint was getting nervous with the words that she was saying. She'd always freaked him out a little bit because she was on his level. She could take him on - and had - at any time, really. He found himself staring down into the mug of coffee, watching his own dark eyes scan over the blackness. "Would it be a stretch to say that I'm not interested in anyone?"

"Clint," Natasha sighed. It was almost funny how they backed away at the same time, scooting deeper in their chairs, Natasha in preparation to say something Clint wouldn't like, and Clint bracing himself to hear it. "Of course it would; you got wood in the middle of training."

The archer groaned inwardly and watched her scrutinize him as steam curled from his untouched mug. He swiped a hand over his face and let it rest over his forehead, his elbows on the table, and Romanoff went quiet for a moment. Her voice was soft. "Listen, Barton. If it isn't Wanda, then who is it?"

The air was silent with a pregnant pause. Clint drummed his fingers on the granite and his eyes couldn't seem to focus on any one thing when he sat up. He couldn't allow himself to go completely calm. Otherwise his skin would go warm and his cheeks would redden like a twelve-year-old kid's. "I don't know," he told the Widow off-handedly. "Steve?"

He hadn't been expecting any more when Natasha scoffed at him. Her eyes were still on his face, still soft, still confident in her partner and friend. She knew the notion was ridiculous, but she took something from what Clint had said. The man recoiled. "It isn't a woman," Natasha muttered.

There was a sigh from Clint's side of the table. His coffee was cold now, and he pulled at each of his fingers, stretching the muscles that had grown stiff in his nervousness. Then he looked up at Romanoff, and her smile was agape and soft, her eyes contented in interest. He supposed she had him for now, and she wouldn't be letting him go anytime soon without a response. "No. No, 'Tasha, it isn't a woman."

She gave him that comical look with her eyes, her brows were perking up, little red lines that said, 'Well, that explains a lot.' Screw you, 'Tasha.

It was relieving to watch Romanoff lean back in her seat. She'd taken the mug into her hands again, and seemed to savor her bitter sips. "Mmph. That's good," she nodded, swallowing the drink.

Clint wondered for a moment if she might be talking about the coffee, but he trashed the thought as soon as it had come. And now he was smirking to himself at how ridiculous and simple this could have been when not even two hours ago he was distracted in hiding an erection behind a dust rag an and arrow.

And now his mind was unfocused again while he recalled just what thoughts had given him that erection. Just who had turned him on.

Natasha was looking at him again, and now her mug was completely empty of its coffee. He watched as she crossed her arms under her chest, her under-suit crinkling with the movement. "Well," she prodded. Her lips were casually downturned when Clint brought his eyes back up to her. "Now you need to tell me who it is."

Clint's next words slipped over his lips. He didn't know where they had come from, and he wasn't sure he'd quite regret having told her. "It's the Quicksilver," he told her, looking straight into her eyes.

Natasha's brows arched. They were clean red lines against her supple skin. If Clint hadn't been so focused on her, he would have attempted to play off his nervousness with an expectant chuckle. "Isn't he a little...?"

"Yeah." Clint's voice went choppy just at the thought of the damned guy. He wasn't going to hold any eye contact with Natasha because he didn't think he could handle it. Not now. Not when just the mention of this man was enough to make his own throat drain of moisture and squeeze in a vice grip around his words. Clint swallowed dryness.

"I think I understand," Natasha said quietly. Clint almost huffed to himself. On any day at any time, he was more than able to detect the many things that happened in a room. That was his job as an archer, to detect things. And what stood out to him now most of all was the way his partner's neck turned when she moved her gaze away from him; the sharp silence the room dropped into.

Her green eyes fell to the mug she had wrapped in her hands. Tendrils of steam continued to curl over its edges, licking at the table before they cooled and condensed. She was thinking. Her eyes were still and her lips motionless as she considered her friend's words. Clint was more like a brother to her - that's how it'd always been. At the noise of every bullet that soared from her pistol, there was a smirk to be exchanged between the Widow and the Hawk. Something that Steve couldn't wrap his head around. Something deep-rooted in the pain they'd endured together.

Clint supposed that now was a good time to take Natasha's example and think. The archer needed to contemplate his actions. Good Lord – even his feelings, probably. When the time came for Pietro's sister to put two and two together, he wasn't going to care how she would feel. Hell, he'd spent a good time ogling her when she first joined the team, but it hadn't been much fun with her brother glaring daggers at him whole time. The Scarlet Witch was the definition of an enigma. Strange; frightening. Graceful; beautiful.

Natasha saw Clint thinking silently to himself when she cast a long glance over the table. She knew how it felt to lust after the wrong person; how it felt to get hot in the face where everyone could see you grow red; how it felt to get weak in the knees and to get caught panting for breath in the mid of day. It was normal even for people with their skill-set to feel such emotions. What she didn't know was how to make it alright again.

Clint had those silvery-blue eyes concentrated on a cabinet in the kitchen when Natasha was swept up from her thoughts. Looking at Clint was like reading a torn-up book for the 50th time. Not a classic novel, but a modern one. Something new that you could read on repeat for days at once. "You should talk to him," she told him. "See if it'd be impossible to get a few words in or maybe a fuck session sometime this weekend."

Clint's expression softened now. The corners of his mouth perked up into an inviting smirk. Or, it was as inviting as he could get being Hawkeye, Natasha supposed. Clint had his arms crossed, and his muscles rippled from beneath the black fabric of his t-shirt when he lifted himself from the kitchen chair. The seat of his jeans was all she could focus on because he was turning away with something like dignity in his smile, a hint of determination in the crease of his brows. "Thanks, 'Tasha," he told her. It was an offhanded remark.

Natasha took Clint's mug in deft hands as he walked, and raised it to her lips. "You bet, tiger," she murmured, raising the rim of his cup.

Clint found Pietro within the next fifteen minutes, but the shit stain in his accomplishment was that Bruce was already standing in front of him and seemed about ten minutes into some sort of lecture. It was something that didn't pertain to Clint, thank goodness. Something that the archer wasn't very obligated to give a shit about.

Clint huffed to himself. Was that a warning Natasha had given him? That little nudge backward. 'Isn't he a little . . . ?'

He wished he hadn't cut her off then. But he knew when he was too far in. He knew what it was like to be controlled from the inside by something, someone, and he'd already realized that Pietro turned him on just as much in person as he had in Clint's racy thoughts. And Clint didn't care if it sounded cheesy in his mind. This guy was his target. Clint had picked him out himself, just like he picked off those Chitauri in New York - one by one.

That didn't make sense. What he was saying was, Pietro had him very, very physically attracted. That was putting it politely.

The mutant's body when Clint pressed into the room was a sweaty, tired heap of lean muscle. Pietro had his lips parted. His skin was flushed and salty beads of sweat trickled, drying and glittering against the side of his neck. Clint's lips turned up at a single corner. He saw the way the runner's chest heaved and fell and immediately scribbled out Bruce's lecture as the source of that kind of fatigue. So Clint was going to go out on a limb. Pietro had either recently come out on the delivering end of an unyielding work-out session or had seen Natasha ass-naked.

But Pietro was listening. His eyes were focused on Bruce from beneath the sweaty hairs that peeked over his eyebrows, attentive to each of the scientist's exegetic words with a venomous, hard stare. He wasn't glaring, however. Clint had a feel for his expression. He could see in his eyes; that stoic, wall-like personality.

Pietro was sprawled out in a chair and had his muscular legs spread wide in such a way that Clint could barely focus on his objective. The room he was in was so damn pointless that before Clint did anything, he had to take account how strange it was of Tony to have bothered even having the damn thing built. There was a television on the wall, a houseplant in the corner of the room that was undeniably bugged with a camera, and in the middle of it all, there was the couch Pietro was sprawled across that Bruce was too introverted to comfortably share. There was also a big-ass window worth five of Clint that let in too much sun, so it was probably needless to say that the room didn't serve any purpose besides taking up blueprint space and being annoyingly fucking bright.

Clint had to shield his eyes as he walked into the room. It felt stupid as hell since he was doing it half to navigate and half to get another look at Pietro's body, but really, he wondered who hadn't looked before. Even on the news, female cast members had mentioned Pietro's handsomeness. What had they called him? Delicious?

Clint remembered the smug half-smile he shared with Natasha as they sat on the couch together, watching Wanda get Pietro to stand in place for an actual minute to watch it. She had the gentlest red smile on her face as she perused her brother's reaction.

And now Pietro was nodding at Bruce in a way that made his hair shimmer in the light of the sun. Clint folded his arms and forced his eyes to move elsewhere. He was rocking on the heels of his boots, distracting himself as he gazed out into the stuffed New York traffic. He was desperate, almost, which he totally wouldn't have been if the mutant had enough decency to not have his bulge in full view like that, out there in the open beneath his suit, ready for the touching.

Bruce tossed his head to the side and his peppered curls shifted, bouncing. The scientist gestured with his hands a lot. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Gamma radiation? Hell yeah; slap a hi-five in the middle there somewhere. "So with a few adjustments to your suit in those places, we could possibly enable you to run faster," Bruce was musing, making that small gesture with his hands that he only did when he had a pen between his fingers.

Clint was a perv; or at least he was seeming like it. Pietro knew how to access him, if that made any sense. The way those red lips moved quickly, mouthing Bruce's words as if he could taste them; hear them again in his own stoic mind. That could not have been an accident.

Pietro murmured to himself, "Faster." His eyes were dead serious now. They were light and hard under the arches of his silver brows, and he had something of a repressed smirk bent out of those plump red lips. "Faster sounds good."

Clint wanted to pull at his own damp hair, but he had to settle, twisting his fingers in the material of his jeans. His restrained arousal was an instantaneous thing, and now Banner was looking at him with that green stare that was always a little threatening no matter how wide he made his smile or how complementing his words seemed to be. He could snap at any minute. "Agent Barton," Bruce greeted, smiling faintly.

It was the last thing he wanted to do when Pietro had his eyes on him, but Clint leaned forward and shook the scientist's hand briefly and hard. "Mr. Banner," he said offhandedly.

"Doctor Banner," Bruce corrected. Clint felt the overwhelming urge to snort all of a sudden. "Is there anything ...?"

"Uh, yeah." Clint cleared his throat into a clenched fist after hearing for himself how just how raspy and turned-on his voice sounded. "I wanted to have a minute with Pietro."

"Oh," Bruce said, and he adjusted the sleeves of his button-down. "Of course," he smiled. Clint found it disturbing, the vague irritation that ticked in the scientist's jaw. It was like a tic; it was gone in a moment, and it irked Clint enough to inch a hand where his sheath would be during battle or training. It was just a bit of stammering and a collection of brisk steps and odd waves before Bruce was gone and the door was closed, leaving just Clint in the empty room.

The air was flooded immediately with a heat, uncomfortable. It was only at the forceful noise of the door closing shut that it invaded Clint's senses. It felt tight – tighter than it had been before – and the runner's sudden standing motion evoked a chill that rolled

He took a casual step forward and could feel the other man's warmth with the closeness. It made the hair rise on his arms and he honed in on the sound of Pietro's breaths, hooding his gray-blue eyes, tilting his head, and crossing his arms. His lips were curved into an inviting smirk. "You know what I want from ya. Right?" Clint murmured, and his voice was low and rough.

There was no response from Pietro but the narrowing of his eyes as he looked at Clint. Those lips were unfortunately still, but the archer hadn't been expecting them to move in the first place. But the runner did gulp. The sheen of dried sweat shone with the ripple of his throat. He had defiance lining the heavy hooks of his white brows, but a red flush crept over the tight collar of his suit. It would have been imperceptible to any normal person, the way he averted his gaze, his teeth grit.

Clint peered into Pietro's threatening glare and he smiled, seeing the reflection of his gesture in the runner's light blue eyes. "No?" The archer asked him. His smile seemed to fall in that moment

It took a moment of quiet. A pregnant, heated pause before the runner parted his lips to speak. It was just as quickly that Clint pressed the palm of his hand to the man's firm ass. The Kevlar was warm there; hard and rough against his hand. Something hitched within his chest and Pietro's glare sharpened.

"You must be insane," the runner sputtered. The archer smirked as the other man's firm body shuddered in his hand, and he tightened his iron grip. Pietro's blue eyes squinted shut. His Adam's apple bobbed harshly, swallowing a groan.

Beads of sweat dribbled over the skin and Clint leaned into the other man's intensity. He could feel the warmth. He elicited a groan from the runner as he traced every hard line with his tongue across taut muscles that stiffened and jumped like wild cords beneath his touch.

He fired hot breaths through his parted, wet lips, his crotch steadily filling.

It grew fuller with each moment, tinting against the tightness of the Kevlar suit that was stretched across his body. And now he was red completely. His lips were a straight, full line, and they looked inviting with the flattering blush that tainted his pale skin. The runner grasped at Clint's wrist, squeezing, bruising with his grip as he shoved the man's arm.

He stared at Clint from over his nose, and it was almost as if the archer was inferior to him. But he was bluffing – to Clint, it was obvious. Breaths escaped Pietro's lips in sharp huffs and his eyes were solid and dark in anticipation. Every inch of his skin was heated red.

And the archer decided he liked the way the other man could scowl. He had the vague idea to just taste him right there, right then. To grab the runner's thigh, dig his fingertips into the taut flesh, and wrench a hand behind his neck. To press his mouth to the other man's hot lips and demand the moans his movement elicited.

The archer felt an urge to lick his lips wetter, but his mouth had gone dry. The runner before him had set crisp blue eyes straight on the erection that made a dent in his bluejeans. This was ridiculous. Clint opened his leathery palms; closed them repeatedly; all at the foreign, irking sense of unease that had leaked into his body within the past fucking minute. Clint was pretty sure that his eyes had turned dark and bold gray. 'Tasha told him that once. His eyes would hood and he would grow serious when he saw her; when he had her squirming in ecstasy beneath the touches of his own hands.

The other man's had his eyes hooded and the pearly-blue rings around his pupils were imperceptible to even the archer in front of him.

His irritation with the other man subsided. They locked eyes, the smallest of smirks crossing over the archer's own dry lips.

It could be so obvious, what the mutant needed. Or maybe that was wrong to say. What he wanted. What he was demanding from Clint.


End file.
